


Out of the Mouths of Babes

by mirajanihiggins



Series: Out of the Mouths of Babes [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuteness overload, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Oblivious John, Paternal Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Pre-Johnlock, bathtime for rosie, rosie is a handful, the truth comes out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-17 00:33:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14176716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: After Mary's death, John and Rosie return to 221B, but nothing has changed between John and Sherlock. Can a child speak truth to her elders?





	Out of the Mouths of Babes

Out of the Mouths of Babes

by Mirajanihiggins

 

 

Chapters: 1/1  
Fandom: [Sherlock - Fandom](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Ftags%2FSherlock%2520-%2520Fandom&t=NmI0YTE0MjQzYmRlZGI1ZGM0MmU4ZGQ4ZTA4NDdmOWQ5YjMyNTBhMixPVW9xQW5iWg%3D%3D&b=t%3At6G1esCoH1VBau8Vc85h2Q&p=https%3A%2F%2Fmirajani.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172496787998%2Fout-of-the-mouths-of-babes-mirajanihiggins&m=1), [Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Ftags%2FSherlock%2520Holmes%2520%2Aa%2A%2520Related%2520Fandoms&t=OWQyYmNkYTFiYzY4MWEzZDk1MWQyMDdhM2NiZGQ4OTkwNzA1YTgxZSxPVW9xQW5iWg%3D%3D&b=t%3At6G1esCoH1VBau8Vc85h2Q&p=https%3A%2F%2Fmirajani.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172496787998%2Fout-of-the-mouths-of-babes-mirajanihiggins&m=1)  
Rating: Not Rated  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson  
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Rosamund Mary “Rosie” Watson  
Additional Tags: Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Pre-Johnlock, rosie is a handful, Paternal Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Oblivious John, bathtime for rosie, the truth comes out, Cuteness overload  
Summary:After Mary’s death, John and Rosie return to 221B, but nothing has changed between John and Sherlock. Can a child speak truth to her elders?

 

 

Rosie splashed joyfully in the old, enameled, four-footed tub in the bathroom of 221B Baker Street. It was the only full bath in the flat that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes shared, so it doubled as a bath and shower. The circular-track shower curtain was pulled aside for the purpose of giving Rosie a good scrubbing, since she had decided to fall face-first into a sloppy puddle in the park earlier in the day. Sherlock had tut-tutted about it and whisked her home for a hot bath and a not-so-stern warning about catching all sorts of diseases from stagnant water. Rosie giggled and splooshed water at him, resulting in his carefully-coiffed hair hanging in ringlets over his face and his ascetic face breaking into an indulgent smile.

 

Sherlock loved this little girl as if she were his own. She was, after all, John’s daughter, and was, therefore, more precious than gold to him. She even looked like him, with that broad smile and pug nose and those huge blue eyes. There was some of Mary there as well, but he dismissed that. She was John’s child, not the child of an assassin who had plotted with Moriarty to take John’s life from him, burning Sherlock’s heart out in the process. No, she was “Princess Rosamund”, queen of all she surveyed and, right now, she was carefully surveying Sherlock’s expression.

 

“Why are you sad, Papa?” she asked, her child’s curiosity blunt as ever.

 

“I’m not, _m_ _a_ _petit_ _e_ _fleur_ ,” he responded, sprinkling their conversation with bits of different languages to increase her multi-linguistic capacities. He had read extensively about methods to increase a child’s intelligence, and multi-linguistic training was a part of that. He refused to talk to her like a child, thinking it was insulting and demeaning to the child. Instead, he talked to her as he would talk to John.

 

“Yes, you are,” the little blonde insisted. She raised her small hand and touched Sherlock’s cheek with a finger. “You’re crying. The tears are right _there_.” She leaned closer. “Why are you crying, Papa?”

 

Warm silver eyes sharpened as he considered his answer. “Those are not tears, Rosie. They’re water. You just splashed me, remember?” he replied, softly and with a trace of a smile.

 

_Too smart by half, this one. Just like her Daddy._ The thought clutched at his heart.

 

John and Rosie had moved in after Mary’s death, and Sherlock had welcomed them both with open arms. He laid down no ground rules except where Rosie’s safety was concerned. There were child-proof gates on the doors, rubber pads on any sharp-edged furniture, and child-proof latches on all cabinets, especially the ones that contained Sherlock’s experimental supplies and microscope. John had acceded to them all, pleased that Sherlock was taking such an active role in Rosie’s care. The tender smile on John’s face every time Sherlock scooped up Rosie from a potentially dangerous situation or shepherded her away from one of the doors warmed Sherlock’s heart and sent a little thrill down his spine. 

 

Life had returned to some sort of normalcy in the household. Mrs Hudson fussed over little Rosie, bringing her treats and playing tea party with her when she became old enough. She had even set up a girly bed-and-playroom in the corner of John’s room upstairs. A gate at the top of the steps kept the little girl from falling, and the single loo in John’s room, while tub-less, served both of their needs once Rosie was toilet-trained.

 

However, some things had _not_ changed. John still maintained his own room, while Sherlock kept his old quarters downstairs. Sherlock had offered the room to John and Rosie, but John wouldn’t have it. John’s bedroom upstairs was actually larger and afforded more room for both of them. Sherlock reluctantly agreed, concerned for Rosie’s safety, but John was satisfied with the arrangements, so Sherlock let it pass.

 

Well aware that John was still grieving the loss of his wife, whatever the circumstances, Sherlock provided whatever support he could with child-rearing and bringing in more income. He accepted cases he would have turned down years ago, accepting pretty much anything that paid. He had learned to keep his mouth shut and his opinions of the merits of the case to himself, all for the good of his two flatmates. It was galling, sometimes, but he would do _anything_ for John and Rosie.

 

Rosie was persistent. “NO, Papa! The water is down _here_ ,” she lowered her finger to his jawline, “but you have water _here_ , where I _didn’t_ splash you!” She pointed again at his high cheekbone just under his left eye, where a trickle had originated. _“Why are you crying?”_ she asked yet again, her chin firm and her lips compressed in that way John had when he’d had enough of Sherlock’s prevarications.

 

Sherlock sighed. She was, like her father, stubborn. This wouldn’t be easy. “I’m worried, that’s all,” he said, succinctly.

 

Her eyes grew round. “About what?” she whispered, as if sharing a conspiratorial secret.

 

He smiled indulgently and lowered his eyes, hoping she wouldn’t read the truth there. “About your daddy. I...worry when he goes out at night. London can be a very dangerous place, you know.”

 

“So _you_ say,” she pouted, disbelievingly. “ _I’ve_ never seen it.” She crossed her arms defiantly.

 

A chuckle escaped Sherlock’s lips. Rosie glared at him. “It’s not funny! If you’re worried about Daddy, then maybe I should be, too!” Her pout began to waver as her eyes became moist.

 

“No, no, no!” Sherlock backed off immediately. “No! Nothing to worry about, _m_ _a_ _petit_ _e_! I just...worry about your daddy, that’s all. He’s my... _friend_.” That word was difficult to squeeze out of his throat, considering his _real_ feelings for John. Oh, he wanted it to be _so_ much more than that!

 

But John wasn’t ready. Or particularly interested, either.

 

John was currently out on a date. He had left Rosie in Sherlock’s able care and picked up a young lady he had met in the Tesco a few days before, and they went out for an early dinner and a movie. Sherlock had smiled and waved as they left, John wearing his “dating shoes” and best shirt and jumper, but his heart was bleeding tears. Rosie waved happily, too, still covered in mud and clinging to Sherlock’s trousers.

 

“Bath time, Unca Sherla!” she had burbled, jumping up and down and smearing more mud than was necessary. She knew how fastidious he was, so he _knew_ she obtained some sort of perverse joy at his discomfort. How John-like!

 

“Well? If he’s my Daddy, so shouldn’t I worry too?” she asked again, blue eyes gazing into silver with such earnestness it melted his heart.

 

Sherlock shook his head. “No, _mon fleur_ , there is no need for _two_ of us to do that. You concentrate on getting clean, and I’ll do the worrying, okay?” He leaned closely and whispered, “That’s what adults are best at, you know.”

 

Rosie giggled. “Does that mean Daddy worries about me, too, Papa?”

 

“Of course. You are what he worries about the most. It’s his job as a daddy,” Sherlock reassured her.

 

She practically fluttered her long eyelashes at him. “Do you worry about me too, Papa?” she said, endearingly.

 

“Always. You and your daddy are my primary concerns,” he affirmed as he squirted shampoo into one long-fingered hand and slathered it into her light-gold hair. She squealed in mock-indignation. “I’ll do it!” she squeaked as she pushed his hands away. “I’m a big girl!”

 

“And getting bigger every day,” Sherlock agreed. “We can hardly keep you in clothes anymore!”

 

She smiled, one-eyed, up at him. Shampoo dripped down the other side. “You know, Papa, I don’t want to be called Rosie anymore.”

 

Sherlock feigned shock. “No? Why ever not? It’s a perfectly good name...”

 

She sniffed. “It’s a name for a baby. I’m not a baby anymore.”

 

Grinning broadly, Sherlock asked, “So, what name would you prefer, then?”

 

She bounced in the tub, setting the water sloshing. “Fleur! I want to be called Fleur!”

 

Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a laugh. “Do you know what ‘Fleur’ means?”

 

Rosie nodded enthusiastically. “It means ‘flower’ in French. I like it.”

 

“Your mother named you Rosamund, you know,” Sherlock reminded her.

 

With a shrug, she said, “I know, but I don’t really like it. I like Fleur.”

 

There was a sensation in Sherlock’s heart, a sweet sadness at hearing that. He had liked Mary, despite her shortcomings. Her death had affected him, too, and to hear her daughter rejecting the name she had given her…

 

“You might change your mind, you know.” His tone was soft and reasonable.

 

“I won’t. I like what _you_ call me,” she replied, equally as reasonable. Then she cocked her head and asked, all innocence, “Why can’t I call you Papa when Daddy’s here?”

 

A breath caught in Sherlock’s throat. He wasn’t really ready for that question. “Well, your daddy hasn’t said that he would like you to call me that. After all, I’m not your real Papa...”

 

“Yes, you are,” she replied, emphatically. “You spend more time with me than Daddy does. You take all kinds of jobs that you don’t like from people you don’t like so Daddy doesn’t have to work so hard. You take care of me and worry about me. Why can’t you be my Papa?”

 

Sherlock was stunned. Here, he thought that Rosie was too young to notice such things, only to suddenly realize that this small package of humanity was brighter than he could have possibly imagined. Part of that might have been attributable to Mary’s keen intellect, but it also made him realize how much of this was John’s influence. He always seemed to underestimate John, just as he obviously had underestimated Rosie.

 

“Why do you say that, Rosie?” he inquired, cautiously.

 

“Fleur!”

 

“Ah, yes, Fleur. Sorry. Now...”

 

“I watch from upstairs when you talk to people. You sound different when you’re excited than when you’re bored. You say you’ll help them, but I can almost hear you say “idiot” as you show them out. And you _always_ tell Daddy he should take more days off so he can spend time with me. That means you have to take more silly jobs to help out.”

 

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. _Out of the mouths of babes._ How could this child be so bloody observant at her age?

 

Change the subject. Fast.

 

“What did you think of the lady your daddy took out tonight? She was very pretty, don’t you think?” he asked, casually. _Distract distract distract._

 

Rosie’s face screwed up in distaste. “I didn’t like her. She giggled too much, and her voice is too high. It hurt my ears.”

 

 _Agreed_. “But, I’m sure she had many other fine qualities...”

 

“She’s not smart. That’s not good,” Rosie opined as she cupped her hands and tried to pour water over her head. Sherlock picked up a soft cup and helped her rinse her wavy hair clean. “Papa! I can do it myself!” she chided.

 

“Yes, I’m sure you can, but I like to help. Is that all right?” he asked, pausing with the cup still in his hand.

 

She eyed him in consideration. “I suppose, but it’s not because I can’t do it myself!”

 

Suppressing a laugh, Sherlock said, straight-faced, “Of course not, Fleur! I know you are perfectly competent to bathe yourself! I’m just here to help.”

 

The smile she bestowed upon him was like sunshine. He basked in the warmth of it.

 

“Anyway,” she continued, “she was staring into the big mirror too much and fixing her hair. She patted me on the head. I _hate_ that,” she said, seriously. “And she tried to flirt with you when Daddy went up to change clothes.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in surprise. “She did?”

 

Rosie was aghast. “Papa! You didn’t _see_ her? _I_ did!”

 

For not the first time in his life, Sherlock felt like a complete idiot. He rarely took note of the behaviors of the female of the species unless it related to a case, and yet this little girl had spotted it clearly. _Perhaps I should take better note of casual feminine behavior before my daughter embarrasses me again._

 

Sherlock jolted upright as he realized what he had just thought. My daughter. _My daughter._

 

“Papa?”

 

He shook himself out of it. “Hmmm?”

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“ _Si_ , _mia dolce bambina_.”

 

Rosie giggled.

 

“So, are you ready to come out of the tub yet?” he asked, reaching for a towel. “The water must be getting cool.”

 

Rosie cocked her head just like John always did and said, “You don’t like ladies very much, do you?”

 

Sherlock froze. _Not yet, not yet, too soon, too bloody soon…_ “I like Mrs. Hudson.”

 

She rumpled her nose. “That’s not the same. Mrs. Hudson takes care of you like a mum. I mean young ladies.” She paused. “Like the ones Daddy dates.”

 

Sherlock seriously considered throwing the towel over his head and sneaking out under its cover but decided he couldn’t leave Rosie alone in the high-sided tub. Instead, he looked away and said, “I have no issue with any of the women your daddy dates...”

 

“Yes, you do,” she rapped back, calling bullshit on Sherlock’s claim. “Whenever he brings a new lady here, you look unhappy.” She got up on her knees so she was eye-level with him. He turned his eyes to meet hers and regretted it immediately. She had that all-seeing stare that children have when they see through an adult. “You smile when you meet them, but it goes away as soon as they leave. You stare at them like you do with the people that bring you stupid jobs. You roll your eyes when they talk silly talk. And,” she held up a finger in John-like emphasis, “You get all sad when he leaves. I have to cheer you up because I hate to see you so sad, Papa.”

 

_I can’t deny what she says. I won’t lie to this child, but I can’t tell her the truth, either. She’s too young to understand…_

 

“You love Daddy, don’t you?” she asked, plainly.

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Of course. He’s my best friend...”

 

She made a “I-can’t-believe-you-can-be-that-dense” face and pronounce, “Not like _that_. You want to marry him!”

 

This rocked Sherlock back on his heels. This small child who stared so wisely over the top of the tub had just nailed him to the wall. His normally lightning-fast brain sputtered and died on the spot.

 

She closed her eyes and nodded in satisfaction. “I thought so. You’re unhappy because Daddy goes out with ladies instead of you.”

 

Sherlock gazed at Rosie silently for a moment, sighed, then said, “You can’t tell _any_ of this to your daddy, you hear, Rosie?”

 

“My name is Fleur.” Obstinantly.

 

“This is _serious_ , Rosie. Your daddy can’t know any of this, okay?” He leaned in until they were almost nose-to-nose. “Your daddy needs... _companionship_ , Rosie. He needs the company of ladies, not...not me.”

 

Wide-eyed and sympathetic, Rosie asked, “Are there lots of men who like other men, Papa?”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, there are, _bella_.“ He helped Rosie to stand up, then stood himself and wrapped the towel around her slender form. “Time to get out and get ready for bed. Now, which pyjamas do you want, the pink or the green?”

 

“The green,” she decided just as a voice shouted “I’m home!” from the front room.

 

“It’s Daddy!” Rosie squealed in delight, jumping up and down in Sherlock’s arms.

 

“We’ll be right out, John,” Sherlock’s deep baritone carried well from the bathroom. He hurried Rosie into her sleep garb and slippers before allowing her to run out into the parlor. He could hear the joy in John’s voice as he greeted her and lifted her up into his arms. The high pitched, childish voice bubbled excitement as she asked how his date went.

 

Sherlock took a deep sigh and turned his attention to cleaning up the bathroom. Rosie loved to splash him, so he was damp and chilled from the experience, but he used her towel to mop up the spilled water and put her bath toys into their suspended net next to the tub. Once finished, he slipped into his bedroom to put on his own ratty pyjamas (unlike Rosie’s, which were of the finest quality) and tying shut his dressing gown before entering the kitchen, where John was lightly rough-housing with Rosie, who giggled and shouted, “Daddy, stop!” as she struggled. She caught sight of Sherlock as he entered the room and yelled, “Papa!”

 

John stopped moving and turned his head, first toward Rosie, then toward Sherlock, with an expression that was an open question mark. “Papa?” he asked, blandly.

 

 

Assuming a neutral expression, Sherlock strode into the room, past John and Rosie, and sat in his own chair. He picked up a book he had started and _then_ acknowledged his flatmate with a nod. “John. How did your evening go? You’re home a bit...early, aren’t you?” he said in apparent concern. In truth, he really didn’t want to know.

 

John rose up and took off his jacket, hanging it beside Sherlock’s belstaff coat. Rosie watched him before turning her wide-eyed gaze toward Sherlock. Sherlock gave her a look over the top of his book, accompanied by a tiny shake of the head. She wrinkled her nose and shrugged. Sherlock rolled his eyes meaningfully. She stuck out her tongue at him. He stuck out _his_ tongue in response.

 

“Whenever the two of you are finished silently communicating, I’ll tell you about my date,” John huffed as he walked over to his chair. Rosie had thrown her arms around John’s waist, so he ended up dragging his daughter behind him until he unlatched her and sat down. She curled up in his lap and sighed happily.

 

“So, what happened, Daddy?” she asked, coyly.

 

“Well, Rosie...”

 

“It’s Fleur.”

 

John asked, “What?”

 

Rosie looked up into his face and said, “My name is Fleur.”

 

John turned his gaze to Sherlock, who feigned innocence.

 

Rosie chimed in, “Papa calls me his “ _petit fleur_ ” when you’re not here. I like Fleur better than Rosie.”

 

“Oh.” John looked at Sherlock. “And what is _this_ all about?”

 

Sherlock just gazed back nonchalantly. “I am introducing her to different languages as a way of improving the expression of her intelligence. Learning multiple languages helps...”

 

John’s glare shut him up. Sherlock retreated behind his book, but not before giving a warning glance to Rosie.

 

“Go on, Daddy,” Rosie urged.

 

John turned back to Rosie. “Well, love, Kaitlyn and I went to a nice seafood restaurant, where the nice lady proceeded to purchase the most expensive item on the menu, only to complain it wasn’t what she expected after eating half of it and sending the rest back. Then she drank a whole lot of wine and became very silly and hard to talk to. _Then_ she went to the loo and spent a half-hour there Facebooking her friends about her lousy date with a short guy with no personality...”

 

Sherlock angrily dropped his book into his lap. _“What did she say?_ Are you _sure_ , John?”

 

“Am I _sure_ , you ask?” John snapped back. “Yes, I’m fu...absolutely sure. I subscribed to her page after I met her. She seemed to have forgotten that. So, there I am, sitting along, getting all these messages about how horrible her date is and she’s so lucky she found out sooner rather than later what a cheapskate I am and how she’s going to ditch me...”

 

“So, what did you do, Daddy?” Rosie asked, obviously upset.

 

“I paid the bill and left without her. I’m sure she could get a cab home. Or maybe one of the men at the bar she was flirting with could help out, I don’t know and I don’t care!” John was a bit red in the face by this time. Rosie snuggled up to him and he hugged her tight. “I guess the only women in my life that I can rely on are you and Mrs. Hudson, eh, Rosie?”

 

“Fleur,” she corrected him, her face smooshed into his chest.

 

John’s eyes flicked up to meet Sherlock’s. Sherlock slowly raised his book up until the only thing John could see was his eyes.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

The silver eyes didn’t move, didn’t blink, over the top of the book.

 

“What else were you and Rosie discussing over her bath, _Papa_?”

 

The book lowered slightly. “I have never asked her to call me that. That was _her_ decision.”

 

“But only when I’m _not here_ , right?”

 

“That was _my_ decision. I told her why.”

 

“So, now you’re taking on the parenting role, eh, _Uncle Sherlock_?”

 

Rosie looked up from John’s chest. “It’s _Papa_!”

 

John looked down. “Oh, _is_ it, now?” He looked back at Sherlock, his expression heated. “Trying to take my daughter’s affections away from me now, Sherlock? Replacing me?”

 

Sherlock’s face became a study in suppressed anger. “Just because some strange woman takes advantage of you on a date is no reason for you to accuse me of trying to alienate your child’s affections, John. I’m sorry your date didn’t work out well...”

 

“Bullshit!” John spat. He leaned forward, accidentally dislodging his daughter from his lap and dumping her to the floor. She squawked as she fell on her bum and Sherlock surged forward to pick her up, only to have John swat him away. “ _My_ daughter, Sherlock, _not_ yours. Mary’s and _mine_!”

 

Sherlock reeled as if struck in the face. He knew John’s anger was easily charged, but the sheer _unfairness_ of the accusation…

 

“Stop it!” Rosie yelled, stomping her bunny-slippered foot. “I call him Papa because he takes care of me and loves me just like you do, Daddy. He _is_ my Papa!”

 

John and Sherlock both stared in awe at the little girl who suddenly seemed a whole lot older than her actual years.

 

John reached out to Rosie, saying, “Rosie, you don’t understand...”

 

She stomped her foot again. Sherlock sat back in his chair and raised his book again, eyes still fixed on the tiny force of nature standing between their chairs, as if wary of what was to come.

 

“I do _so_ understand! You keep going out with nasty ladies who treat you wrong and make you angry while Papa stays home with _me_! You come back angry and you yell at Papa, who always lets you do it even though it upsets him.!” He face was flushed and she looked about ready to cry.

 

“Rosie...” John started.

 

Rosie’s lower lip stuck out aggressively.

 

“Fleur,” Sherlock murmured. John glared at him.

 

“It’s not _fair_ , Daddy! Papa loves you and you don’t take him out with you!” she declared. “You leave with some lady and it makes Papa sad!” Rosie sniffled a little, then continued, “Sometimes he cries when you’re gone. He pretends it’s something silly, like dust or something, but he doesn’t do it any other time except when you’re gone!” She lifted her chin, as if defying anyone to contradict her.

 

John’s eyes left Rosie’s and traveled over to Sherlock’s, but _they_ were safely hidden behind the book.

 

“John, don’t you think it’s past Rosie’s bedtime?” Sherlock asked, his voice muffled.

 

Ignoring him, John said, in a quiet voice, “There are many different kinds of love, Rosie. Sherlock and I love each others as _friends_...”

 

“Oh, Daddy, sometimes you can be _such_ an idiot,” Rosie pronounced, frustrated.

 

John jolted in his seat. Sherlock slid down in his chair, shoulders hunched, face buried deep in his book...

 

“ _R_ osie, that’s _no_ way...”

 

Rosie cut him off, her voice smug. “Papa’s in love with you and wants to marry you, he said so himself.”

 

A little, strangled “shit” wafted its way from behind the book. John stared at Sherlock like a hunter at his cornered prey.

 

“Sherlock likes girls,” John said, as if testing the waters. His gaze didn’t move.

 

“Nope. Sherlock likes boys,” Rosie countered.

 

“ _ **TIME FOR BED**_ ,” Sherlock boomed as he exploded out of his chair and scooped Rosie up in his arms.

 

“Hey, that’s _my_ daughter!” John protested.

 

“ _Then maybe you should stay home with her more often_!” Sherlock shot back as he carried Rosie, fireman-style, up to John’s room. All the while, the little girl giggled, as if pleased with herself.

 

A few minutes later, Sherlock returned downstairs. He paused at the doors, as if trying to decide which one to use; return to the parlor for a further, probably disastrous discussion, or go through the kitchen and into the sweet asylum of his bedroom.

 

“Get your ass in here, Sherlock,” John grated out.

 

Decision made.

 

Sherlock sat down and crossed his long legs, his expression defiant. “I told your daughter nothing, John. Those were all her surmises.”

 

Fingers drumming on the arms of his chair, John said, “Pretty good ones, though.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Her observational skills are highly refined, but I did _not_ verify her conclusions.”

 

After working his lips nervously for a few seconds, John admitted, “She is right about one thing.”

 

Sherlock cocked his head in inquiry.

 

“I _am_ an idiot.”

 

“No comment.”

 

John huffed a laugh. “I’ve seen all the same things she did and I never put two and two together. I’ve always relied on what you’ve told me and what I convinced myself must be the truth rather than challenging my findings, as _you_ would have. Some detective _I_ am.”

 

“You’re not. You’re a doctor. You believe in what you see.”

 

John nodded. “True. But a good doctor has to be able to look deeper. I didn’t.” His face relaxed as he asked, “Is any of what she said true, Sherlock?”

 

The detective closed his eyes and said, sadly, “All of it.”

 

John sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me this before, Sherlock? It would have changed so much.”

 

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Sherlock admitted. “I was afraid that you would be offended and leave, taking Rosie with you. I couldn’t bear to lose both of you. Better to remain silent and live with the status quo than to be rejected by the person I would lay down my life for.”

 

There was quiet in the room as each man tried to come to grips with their thoughts and feelings…

 

“ _Tell Daddy you love him, Papa!”_ a girlish voice yelled from upstairs.

 

“ _BACK TO BED, YOU!”_ Sherlock yelled as he got out of his chair and stomped loudly on the floor, as if coming toward the stairs. A high-pitched giggle was cut off as the upstairs door slammed shut.

 

Sherlock smirked as he sat back down. “A handful, that one.”

 

“Gets it from her mother,” John opined.

 

“Gets if from _you_ ,” Sherlock contradicted him.

 

The two men gazed at each other silently. Then John spoke.

 

“You think we could get Mrs. Hudson to babysit tomorrow night?” he asked.

 

Sherlock blinked. “I’m sure we can ask. Why, are we going somewhere?”

 

John grinned shyly. “Yeah. You, me, dinner at Angelo’s. What do you say?”

 

Sherlock blushed. “It’s a date.”

 

“ _WOOHOO!”_

 

Both men yelled, “ _GET BACK TO BED_!”

 


End file.
